After it All
by mktellstales
Summary: Follow the lives of the five friends of Baker Street, who thought they had it all figured out years ago, only to find that you're never too old to change, and you're never too old to need the held of a friend. -This is explicit. You've been warned.
1. Chapter 1

Almost six years ago, Mary Morstan stumbled across an ad in the paper for it, and, recently broken up with her boyfriend; voluntarily kicked out of their home; she found charm in the dust and grime. To her, 221aa was wonderful. It took some cleaning up, a little bit of elbow grease and a lot of fresh paint, but Mary managed to get everything just the way she wanted it. Her pale yellow couch sat underneath the window, its matching chair in the corner by the fireplace with an old silver stand that held her books with just enough space for a cup of tea to rest. The kitchen cupboards held her dark purple plates and bowls; her red wine glasses, her white wine glasses, her sterling silver cheese platter and the pastel pink tea cups she had gotten for her birthday several years ago from the ex-boyfriend she was all but fleeing from. The countertop in the kitchen; old linoleum still peeling and cracking in some places was scrubbed within an inch of its life and an oversized wicker basket full of fruit sat on top along with her kettle and a flower pot she had repurposed to hold her silverware. The main bedroom was finally livable as well; plush bed with a white and powder blue duvet, book shelves lined with knick knacks and old textbooks from some of her more interesting classes at Uni, and classic favorites. All the walls, even down to the bathroom, had been stripped of their terrible, mouldy wallpaper and painted a crisp shade of green or grey. In short, it was perfect.

Not long after moving in, and burying herself into the restoration, one of the technicians at the veterinary clinic she worked at was looking for a flat share; not long out of her schooling, and not long out of her parents home, she wanted to be on her own, but not completely on her own. So, Molly Hooper brought her rust coloured, velveteen chair from the seventies, and her long built collection of cat related knick knacks, and deposited them into 221aa.

Just above them, in 221a proper, lived Mrs. Hudson, the landlady. Her tenants being much younger than she, she liked to stay out of their way; bring them biscuits when she made too many (and of course, she always made too many), she dusted a bit when they weren't home (but she was not their housekeeper; not even close), and in return, they shared afternoon tea with her, fixed light bulbs that had blown out in her tall lamps, and invited her to their weekly dinners, even though she never accepted.

Above, Mrs. Hudson, in 221b there was Sherlock Holmes; the first tenant of the building; someone who seemed to be as much a part of Baker Street as the bricks were themselves. His flat was a chaotic mess, much like the man was himself; books crammed into the shelf along the fireplace, and then stacked in the corners when he had run out of room; musical instruments; a small keyboard, and two violins near the cluttered desk underneath the window. There was a skull on the mantle, and a pocket knife pushed through a torn up piece of sheet music. The kitchen was a disaster of more sheet music, and an old, chipped recorder that sat on the dining room table, and never moved. His bedroom stood in contrast; orderly and neat; antique instruments he had collected throughout his life in a glass hutch; a framed picture of a composition done by Mozart hanging on his wall.

Sherlock didn't live alone; he had for most of his adult life, but a brief interlude with a medical facility left his funds lacking, so the blonde neighbor from the basement, whom he had barely spoken three word to in two years, brought her ex-boyfriend up to his flat one day, much to her own inner confliction, and not twelve hours later, John Watson was moving his few things from the small flat he had downsized to, and moving them into the bedroom upstairs; a small bed, a prized collection of jumpers, and an old picture of he and his sister, and a binder of lesson plans.

Above them, in the last flat, lived Greg Lestrade. Greg had lived there almost as long as Sherlock had. He moved in after his wife of three years got stuck on the idea of a trial separation; the trial had been going on for six years, with no resolution; no divorce, no getting back together, just a constant tug and pull of emotions from the woman Greg had always been content on spending the rest of his life with.

Greg's flat was the only other (besides Mrs. Hudson's) with one bedroom; made entirely perfect for the reluctant bachelor. His laundry could often be found on the floor, his dishes dirty in the sink and on the counter top.

Friendship seemed to have no choice but to spring up between the lot of them; Mary and Molly no doubt were friends due to living together, and Mary and John had a history together that they sometimes would have liked to ignore, but it was impossible to forget that they once loved each other, before they fell in love with each other and ruined everything between them. John and Sherlock were friends (John likely was the only actual friend Sherlock had; the rest just seemed to tolerate him) from years of living together, and from something else- something that was having a hard time being placed. Sherlock had always gotten on well with Greg, the two of them having been the only tenants for a period of time, stayed out of each other's way, but were friendly when they couldn't manage to be avoided. Greg got along well with John; having found out that they were working at the same school for ages, and the girls' liked him as well. They were a knitted net; woven together by history, by present, and by future.

Greg was sitting on the yellow chair in Mary's flat. They all met their once a week for dinner cooked by the woman whose cooking talents were wasted spaying and neutering cats and dogs all day. Greg had the remote for the telly in his hand, and finger on his finger planted on the button, searching through the channels, mumbling about how there was nothing good to watch anymore. John was sitting next to him, telling Greg to stop on something or to get ready to be punched in the face. They were both perched on the very end of their respective chairs, elbows on their knees and wrinkles in their foreheads, which could have been from their contention, but was more likely a sign that they were both quickly approaching forty; the wrinkles matched the flecks of gray that had begun to spring up in their otherwise beautiful heads of hair; of course, a little bit of gray distinction could always add to their attraction.

Molly was curled up in her chair, an old, worn out copy of Jane Eyre between the fingers of one hand, while the fingers of her other twirled through a stray piece of hair that had fallen out from her loose, careless bun. She did her best to ignore the over grown children sitting to the side of her; she spent most of her days drowning out mews and whining barks from the patients at the vet clinic, so it wasn't too difficult to ignore John and Greg.

In the kitchen, Molly was stirring a pot of stew she had let simmer all day, and bending down to check the progress of her yeast rolls through the window in the oven. At one point in her life, Mary had fancied that she would become a chef, but the industry was a difficult one, as her father kept reminding her, and so she chose veterinary surgery instead, but Mary never lost her love for cooking, and tried as often as she could to properly feed her friends; if no one else.

Mary came out from the kitchen, wiped her hands on her apron, and looked over to John, "Is Sherlock coming down?" she asked him.

"I don't know. He was in a bit of a mood when I left."

"Isn't he always?" Mary asked back. "Could you go up there and see?"

"Why do I have to go?"

"Because he's your flat mate."

John sighed, "He's your friend; it's your dinner."

"He'd only yell at me. You know how to handle him best; just go. Please."

John sighed again, and got up from the chair, "I thought part of not dating you meant I didn't have to do everything you asked of me."

"Oh, sweetie," Mary playfully pinched John's chin between her fingers, "You're always going to do everything I ask of you." She said with a laugh, and then let him go.

John went up the small staircase between the bottom flat and the landing and then the longer one that led up to his own. He pushed the door open, and found Sherlock, much the same way he had left him; slumped in his chair; arms hanging limp over the sides, long legs outstretched so that his toes touched the small feet of John's chair, and surrounded by a cloud of smoke from the cigarette hanging from between his lips. His eyes were closed, and there was the soft buzz of clarinets and what John thought might be a French horn, and the tickling of a piano playing over the set of speakers hooked up in the living room.

"Sherlock-" John ventured, cautiously, in case he had fallen asleep.

"John." Came Sherlock's low rumble of a response.

"Mary wanted to know if you were coming down for dinner."

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, and brought the fingers of hi left hand up to take the cigarette out of his mouth and push down into the nearly full ashtray at the bottom of his chair.

"How many of those have you smoked in the last hour?" John asked, picking up the ashtray, and walking into the kitchen to dump it into the bin.

"Not nearly enough." His calm demeanor flickered away in an instant as he sat up and dug his fingers into the sides of his curly mess of hair, and tugged. "I'm stuck John! Everything I've been writing turns out sounding exactly like this!" he moved his hands wildly from his hair to motion to the sound coming out from the speakers.

"Is this you?" John asked. He had no choice but to listen to Sherlock's incessant practicing, and he had been to a show once, but John would never be able to pick out a piece of music Sherlock had written against others.

It was beautiful; slow and deliberate; it made your eyes want to close and succumb to a sweet memory of a dream, but there was an undertone, just haunting enough that would only keep you on the precipice of sleep without ever giving it to you.

"Yes. Two years ago. I shouldn't have told Mycroft I was ready to write another show; I'm obviously not."

"Maybe you just need a break. Go get dressed, and come have dinner."

Sherlock looked off at John for a few moments, like he was studying him, tough for what, John didn't know. Then, Sherlock's look of tension slithered away from his face, and his general mask of cool, complacency and general irritation with the world around him returned. He ran off to the back of the flat, presumably into his bedroom, and John waited in their living room for him to return.

It was only seven minutes before Sherlock came back, black trousers, dark green button down, and black socks, but no shoes. His hair was bit more managed, though still tousled at the sides. John sucked in an annoyed breath at how effortless it was for Sherlock to look so magnificent, all the time. Even when John had first walked in, and Sherlock was just sitting there in an inside out gray shirt, and blue pyjamas, he had managed to look like a regal house cat; lounging about while his owner was away.

They went back downstairs to Mary and Molly's just as Mary was setting out the bowls filled with stew and a basket of rolls.

Everyone ate, and drank; generally too consumed with the food to make any conversation. When they finished, however; surrounded by empty bowls, glasses and bottles, Mary left the table, and scuttled down the hallway toward her bedroom. She returned with a wooden box, and a smile. Everyone else smiled too, except Sherlock, who rolled his eyes.

The game was familiar; played over and over again for years between the five of them. Mary handed the box over to John, who took a sip from his third refreshed glass of wine and dug his hand inside.

"Worst kiss." John said to Mary, setting the paper aside, so the question couldn't be asked again that night.

Mary laughed, "you actually."

"Me? I'm a fantastic kisser."

"Not when you're pissed."

"Oi, that doesn't count!"

"It absolutely does. You were so bad at it that I had to make it a rule you couldn't kiss me after the pub."

John made a face like an upset child, and leaned back in his chair. He pouted out his bottom lip, and quickly bought it back in, "Fine; lets just move on."

He reached into the box, and pulled out another piece of paper to unfold, and giggled a little before asking Sherlock his question. "Best orgasm."

"Best orgasm?" Sherlock repeated "Is this really the kind of people we are? Our interest in one another comes down to trivial knowledge that borders on gossip? Wouldn't you rather know a favourite childhood memory, a difficult obstacle I overcame, or even my favourite book?"

Everyone was silent for a moment, and looked back and forth between each other, and then at Sherlock.

"No." Mary said, "I definitely want to know about your best orgasm."

"Yea, I kind of do too." Greg added, pressing his elbows onto the table and leaning forward.

Sherlock sighed and shook his head, " you are all so simple minded."

"Yea, we know; terrible people. Now tell us." Greg pushed.

"Fine." Sherlock sighed through his nose, and calmly asked, "What exactly do you want to know?"

"Who it was with, when it happened; why it was so great." Mary said.

"I deleted his name, and it was something like two years ago. The key to a good orgasm, of course, is the build up. He had me on the edge of coming for twenty seven minutes before I finally did."

"Twenty seven bloody minutes?" Greg asked, "How did he do that?"

"He had a lot of control, as did I. Most people orgasm quite quickly because they can't control their breath; they let the serotonin and their hormones invade their synapses, and let the pleasure over take them. But if you let yourself be present rather than drowning in anticipation, you can hold on for quite a while. Unfortunately, we were pressed for time, so the twenty seven minutes was all we managed."

"If you're actively trying not to come, how do you know when it's finally time?" Molly asked, her cheeks turning a little pink in the process.

"One of you says to the other, I'd like to come now" Sherlock answered in his, _isn't it obvious_ voice. "That was me. I was running late for a rehearsal."

"And when it finally happened?"

"Honestly? You want to know about how I had to wash my own come out of my hair in the bathroom basin; how I had to scrub it from my headboard the next morning? Would you like to know that it lasted for well over three minutes, and I temporarily forgot that I have no belief in God, as I kept calling out to him?"

There was a collective silence while everyone stared at Sherlock. John was the first one to break the heavy tension that was suddenly hanging in the air around them. He shifted in his chair, and cleared his throat.

"And no one has done better since?" he asked

"I haven't orgasmed since." Sherlock said, flatly.

"At all?"

"At all."

"How have you gone two years without even touching yourself?" Greg asked.

"As we've established, I have more control over my body than most."

"Yea, but you don't even get yourself off?"

"Unlike the lot of you, I don't feel the need to masturbate every day."

They all collectively protested Sherlock's observation. A grin crossed over his face, and he leaned forward on his chair, fingers underneath his chin.

"John, you did just this morning in the shower; I always know because you're in there ten minutes longer, and there's a heavier scent of soap left over. Mostly, though, you do it once you've gone to bed. You bring your laptop with, and come down to the bathroom after being upstairs for thirty minutes. Mary, you like to do it after you've showered, which is why you save your showers for just before bed; doesn't take you long to climax generally. Greg, you don't have a set schedule for your masturbation; because you live alone, and have no one to worry about finding out. You just have wank whenever you feel, and often on your couch."

"Oi!" John shouted, "I've slept on that couch!"

Sherlock shot John a glare, clearly telling him to shut up, so that he can finish. John narrowed his eyes back at Sherlock, but did as he was silently told anyway.

"And Molly." Sherlock continued, "You take your masturbation quite seriously; etching time out of your day with music, and candles, and toys. Everyone else just wants to get off, but you want an experience. Of course, with your new boyfriend, you haven't much had the need for it."

"New boyfriend?" Greg asked, looking to Molly; his voice hitched a little higher than usual.

"I- Sherlock how did you know I've been seeing someone?" Molly asked, her cheeks and the tips of her ears a bright shade of red.

"There's a new tube of pink lipstick on your side of the bathroom counter, and an empty bag from the lingerie store in the bin. Obvious."

"How do you know the bag isn't Mary's?"

"Mary is still hung up on John. She hasn't dated anyone worth buying new knickers for in three years; not from a lingerie store at least."

"Okay, Sherlock. I think it's time to shut up now." John cut in with a nervous laugh, leaning over and putting his hand on Sherlock's arm.

"Not good?" He asked, his voice genuine in his question.

"Bit not good, yea."

"Oh." He sat back in his chair, and waved his hand dismissively in the air, "I told you that the game was stupid."

There was a few moments of silence; no one really sure what to say to the other. They forgot about the game for the remainder of the evening, and Molly started to clear off the table; brining the dishes into the kitchen.

"So, you're seeing someone then?" Greg asked her, bringing in the empty glasses; everyone's but John's.

"It's still early days, but yes." She answered, her smile as evident in her voice as it is on her face. "His name is Jim. He works at the National Bank."

"Well, good for you Molly. When do we get to meet him?"

"Like I said, early days."

"Afraid to bring him around Sherlock?"

Molly laughed, "He just told you all how I like to get myself off, can you really blame me for not wanting to introduce them to each other?"

"Well, to be fair, he told us how everyone does it. Except for himself; that bastard."

"Because he doesn't; remember?"

"Oh right."

They both laughed, and Molly rested her hand on Greg's shoulder; it was just the lightest of touches, for the briefest of moments before she let go, and opened the dishwasher.

In the living room, Sherlock was lying, just as regally as before, in one of Mary and Molly's chairs; his legs stretched out, his arms falling over the sides.

"I think you should probably get John back upstairs." Mary said to him from the matching chair, motioning to John, falling asleep on the couch, empty wine glass threatening to crash onto the floor.

"I suppose you're right." Sherlock lifted himself from the chair; it's a swift, clean motion, but he sighs as if he was being asked to move the Berlin wall rather his own lithe body.

"Come on John, let's go." Sherlock hoisted John up from the couch, slinging one arm over his shoulder.

John pulled away, "I can walk myself, thank you."

"Fine, you lead the way then." Sherlock followed John out of the girls' flat, and slowly stayed behind him up the stairs to their own, keeping his hands in front of his own body in case John should stumble backward.

"Do you need anything?" Sherlock asked when they've reached their flat.

"A glass of water would be great." John lay down on their couch; just for a moment to rest his eyes, and to keep the room from spinning so damn fast.

It was generally assumed by anyone that knew them, that John was the one always taking care of Sherlock; that he ran his ridiculous errands, made him tea, and remembered to feed him at least one good meal throughout the day. It was accepted that John took care of Sherlock when he was ill, even when Sherlock was insisting that he didn't need to be taken care of, and especially when Sherlock finally did give in to whatever illness was inflicting him. And the assumption was correct, and true to form, John did it all with no complaint, and a smile on his face, because John took care of people, and Sherlock was his best friend.

But there were rare moments, that no one else ever saw, when Sherlock took care of John much the same way he had grown accustom to being taken care of.

Sherlock came back with the water, and a paracetamol. John slid the pill into his mouth, and drank the water. Sherlock started to rummage through some papers on his desk, organizing the work he had done that day.

"Sherlock, what's your favourite book?" John asked from the couch. He was starting to think he wasn't going to make it up to his bed tonight.

Sherlock stopped, a pile of sheet music in his hands, and smiled,

"Il Figlio del Corsaro Rossa"

"And in English?"

"The Son of the Red Corsair."

Pirates. John smiled in his sleepy, alcoholic haze, and laid his head back down on the pillow of the couch. Sherlock, finished with his papers, left to go upstairs into John's room. He opened the wardrobe, and pulled down one of the spare blankets John kept in there. He brought a it back downstairs with him, and covered it over John's already snoring body.


	2. Chapter 2

In the morning, John woke up to the alarm on his phone. He didn't remember setting it the night before, but there isn't much from the night before he can remember if he was being honest with himself. John slowly sat up, holding his hand against his head. Sherlock was in his chair, dressed much like he was the last time John remembered seeing him (he didn't remember much after his first bottle of wine).

"Tea?" Sherlock asked, holding out a mug with steam rising over the rim.

"You made me tea?" John asked, reaching out and wrapping his hands around the earth porcelain. He took a sip; it was warm and soothing; peppermint with no sugar and a splash of cream rather than milk.

"I made myself some; knew you would be up soon, so I made a cup for you as well."

"You made yourself tea?"

"I am an adult, John; English too. I know how to make tea."

John laughed, and grabbed his head again at the vibrating pain that pulsed through it, "yes, but you never do."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and took a drink from his own mug, "a simple thank you would have sufficed."

"Thank- wait a minute; what did you do?"

"Made tea?" Sherlock answered slowly, "Are you still drunk?"

"The last time you made me tea was after you tried to do the washing yourself and shrunk my jumpers."

"I have not attempted any washing."

"Cigarette ash in the gold box from my grand mother?"

"You hid that away remember?"

"Right. Are you sure you haven't done anything?"

Sherlock sighed, and bit down on his bottom lip, trying to hide from John any disappointment he was feeling in John's inability to appreciate the nice thing Sherlock had gone out of his way to do. "I'm positive, John. I just thought you would like some tea."

John drank the last of what frankly _was_ a damn good cuppa, and slowly got up from the couch. He knew that he had hurt Sherlock feelings, but he wasn't going to apologize, because that would mean Sherlock would have to admit to having a feeling and John would never do that to him.

"Well, thank you Sherlock." He said, and pressed an apologetic hand against his shoulder. He went through the kitchen, and into the bathroom to take a hot shower, and wash away the night before. John hadn't meant to drink as much as he had for no reason, on a random Thursday night; but then again, he never did mean to drink that much on any given night. Showered and dressed, John went back downstairs to find Sherlock scratching away at already filled sheet music. John had picked one up one day, and tried to make sense of all the notes and scribbles, but he could never quite figure it out.

John took one last look at Sherlock before having to run out for the carpool. He was still in his blue striped pyjamas, and an inside out grey tee shirt, a beige and black dressing gown open, and the belt hanging against his thighs and hitting at his knees. He was quite obviously lost in his own thoughts inside his head, as he often was. John knew that Sherlock worked hard to get to where he was, and he worked even harder to stay there; to be thirty two, seven years out of formal training, and be the conductor of his own orchestra (never mind that his brother was the director- Sherlock deserved every thing he had either way), took a dedication that John could never imagine for himself. And then there was the music he composed, that was sold and played, though never nearly as well as when under Sherlock's hand, by other orchestras, professional and academic alike. Sherlock was a musical genius, a prodigy from a young age, and John admired him greatly for it. John, however, was jealous that the berk got to stay home, and didn't even need to dress for a great deal of the year in order to do his work. While John had to wake early five days a week, dress professionally, and face whatever the English weather gods had in store for him- (rain usually.)

"I'll stop at Tesco on my way home. Do you need anything?" John asked, holding the door open, and seeing Greg and Mary standing at the bottom of the steps waiting for him.

"Pencils. The green ones with the fine led and the black rubbers."

"Yea, they don't sell those at Tesco."

"No, but they sell them at your school shop. Three packs. Oh, and those coffee flavoured biscuits."

John sighed, "Pencils and disgusting biscuits. Got it."

John closed the door and jogged down the stairs, "sorry. Let's go."

Mary rolled her eyes and opened the door for the boys. They ran through the dripping rain across the street to Mary's two door and squeezed in. The drive to the school to drop John and Greg off first wasn't long, and they spent it, like they spent every third morning listening to the BBC news station (Mary's choice). Mary dropped them off, and left with a smile and a wave. John and Greg split up to go to their separate parts of the school and start their day.

The school was Public, but John was sure not a thing like the posh place Sherlock had been educated, but rather a place for parents looking to send their children somewhere a bit more to their taste than a State School. Not that John found State Schools to be inadequate; he, after all had gone to one. John opened the door to the primary school, and sauntered down the hall into the lounge. He could smell the coffee brewing, and pulled his black and red striped mug down from the cupboard to pour himself some.

"Morning, John."

John turned to the sweet and chipper voice, and smiled as Jeannette, possibly the only female teacher in the entire school who didn't seem to hate him, walked in and reached over him, stretching her side so that it gently brushed against John in what could have been considered an accident, but he knew that it hadn't been. John watched her fall back on her feet, and push her long black hair behind her ears before pouring the hot coffee into the mug she brought down.

He and Jeanette had shared a drink or two after work, but neither of them had made the move to ask for more. John wasn't sure if she was interested. He knew that he had a reputation at the school; that the female faction found him attractive, desirable, but no one took him seriously as someone to go beyond dinner and the bedroom with. But if he didn't ask, he was going to lose his chance forever.

"Do you have plans tomorrow night? I thought maybe we could grab some dinner." John asked her

She smiled, "yea, that sounds lovely."

"Great. Text me your address and I'll pick you up at seven?"

"Sure." She smiled again, and left the lounge with her mug, stealing a glance at John behind her shoulder on the way.

John took a moment to admire the curve of her backside; the way her light gray pencil skirt hugged at her bum. John knew, that two years away from the dreaded _four-O, _he should be focused more on finding a mate for the long haul rather than bouncing around with girls half his age, but John wasn't quite ready to give up the fun he could have with girls like Jeanette.

John shook himself out of his fog, and dumped the coffee down his throat. He brushed down, passed the art work in the hall until he came to his classroom, and unlocked the door, flipped on the light and started setting up for his day.

John's decision to become a teacher sort of happened by accident. He had planned to follow in his father's footsteps, and become a surgeon, but while John was serving in the Royal Guard, hoping to take advantage of their program to fast track his medical career, his father abruptly left their family, and John found himself leaving behind the army, and his hopes of being any kind of doctor.

John's day progressed much as he would have expected it to; over eager students just waiting for the day to be over so that they could scream their way into the weekend. John, too, was waiting for the day to be over, so he could sink into a cup of tea, and some bad telly while the last vestiges of his hangover disappeared.

He took the tube home with Greg, who didn't have to stay for a practice, He kept his bag close, the pencils he had bought from the school shop earlier in the day, tucked inside, and headed out to the station. They stopped at Tesco, picking up some groceries, and walked the rest of the way back to 221.

Sherlock wasn't home when John got back from the store. John mumbled to himself as he put away the shopping, leaving Sherlock's biscuits, and pencils out on the desk underneath the window that was supposed to be the both of theirs, but was always so cluttered with Sherlock's things that John could barely even set his laptop down there. He put on a kettle of water to boil for he and Greg (whom had decided to stay for a little bit), and popped in some toast. He pulled out the jar of jam from the fridge, unscrewed the lid, and walked with it, still in his hands toward the living room to see if Greg would want some too.

It all happened in slow motion; as if it wasn't even happening to him at all. John's sock caught on a splinter in the hardwood floor, he tried to pull it free before even realizing what the problem was, and then the jar was slipping out of his hands, flying into the air, and hitting against Sherlock's coat, thrown over the back of John's chair, before crashing down to the floor.

"Oh, bloody, fucking shite!" John yelled, when the horror of what had happened finally hit him. He frantically reached for the coat; his feet sliding into a pile of jam and glass. He stared down at the woolen, stained fabric in his hands. Greg, on the other side of the room, clasped his hand over his mouth to stifle the laughter getting to escape,

"Sherlock is going to kill you." He said.

"Sherlock is going to fucking kill me!" John yelled, He grabbed the sides of his head with his hands, letting the coat fall down to the floor. "I made this big deal about him destroying my things this morning, and I fucking ruin his coat!" John let out a loud, frustrated grunt.

Sherlock had feelings for very little, but he cared for his coat as a mother cared for her child. It was still relatively new; he had only bought it two years earlier for his thirtieth birthday. While John and Greg, and the girls and Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, were sitting around with over an over eaten plate of sandwiches and an uneaten birthday cake, Sherlock was at the shops, slipping his arms into the silk lined sleeves, and falling in love.

And John had just murdered it with a jar of strawberry jam.

"Do you think maybe he did it on purpose?" Greg asked "like, he left it out to teach you a lesson about annoying him or something?

John shook his head, "Sherlock would never sacrifice his coat; for anything. Shit!"

"Who thought you English, mate?"

"I'm upset. I curse when I'm upset."

"I see that."

"Oh! Oh!" John jumped a little, "Brilliant!" John set the coat back down, and ran through the kitchen, and down the hallway to Sherlock's bedroom, tripping over a case Sherlock had left against the wall.

"What are you on about?" Greg called after him.

"He has another one!" John yelled from the back of the flat.

"He what?"

John came back into the living room, holding an identical coat. "He bought another, so when this one needs to be mended or cleaned he still has one to wear."

"He is an interesting fellow isn't he?"

John waved his hand in dismissal of Greg's comment, and bundled up the dirty coat underneath his arm.

"I'll take it to his cleaner, and just hope it can get cleaned before he has to put on this one, or notices the other missing from the closet."

"Is he really going to know the difference?"

John glared over at Greg.

"Yes, yes, I know how stupid of a question it was. Come on, let's go then."

John hung up the decoy coat on the hooks by the front door at the bottom of the staircase, and he and Greg went to the over priced, and frankly too upscale dry cleaner that Sherlock used to keep his posh things posh. He left it with an overly enthusiastic girl at the counter (How could anyone who treated stains all day for a living be that chipper?), and returned back to the flat to make more tea in an attempt to calm his nerves.

When Sherlock got home, later that night, John was sitting in his chair. Sherlock tossed a handful of shopping bags on the couch

"Where is my coat?" Sherlock asked; the first thing out of his mouth.

John cringed. He had hoped he would at least make it through the night before Sherlock noticed, but of course, that was always just a fanciful hope.

"You left it on the chair this morning; I hung it up for you." He said, really hoping the strained, high pitch of his voice wasn't noticeable to Sherlock.

"No. You went into my closet and took down my secondary coat and hung that one up, but my actual coat is gone. Where is it?"

"Look, Sherlock" John started, setting down the student papers he was reading, and standing up to properly face Sherlock; to tell the truth to him like a man rather than a coward, " I spilled jam on it, and I brought it to the cleaners- right after it happened. I'll pick up tomorrow." He said quickly. "I hung up the other coat hoping you wouldn't notice until I could switch them out, but I knew you would know. Stupid idea."

Sherlock was quiet. He stared at John; his face as impassive as ever and John couldn't quite figure it out. Sherlock, along with his many other talents, had a talent for reading people, though that wasn't what he called it, and John had picked up a few things in the years they had known each other, at least he thought he had picked up a few things to be able to read Sherlock, but he he had no idea what was going through his head at that moment.

"Sherlock? I'm sorry."

"Did you take it to my cleaner?" he asked.

"Of course. The girl behind the desk said they shouldn't have a problem with it. Did I mention I was sorry?"

"Yes, you did." Sherlock said slowly. "It's fine, John."

"Really?"

"Really. It was an accident; I shouldn't have been so careless as to leave it lying about."

"Oh, God; you're going to kill me in my sleep aren't you?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John. It's only a coat." Sherlock said, laughing and picking his bags back up to bring them into the bedroom.

"Right, well, again, I'm sorry."

"And, again; I say that it's fine. I have socks to place into my index, would you order us some take away from the Indian place?"

"Sure."

"Thank you." Sherlock said with a smile, and disappeared.

John didn't feel right. Sherlock shouldn't have been so..._understanding_ about the whole thing. He should have screamed, and thrown books from the shelf onto the floor; he should have at least threatened bodily harm if not actually delivered it. But he shouldn't have said it was fine; he shouldn't have laughed, and he shouldn't have willingly asked for food.

Something was definitely going to happen.

John Watson did not feel safe.


	3. Chapter 3

Mary was lying in her bed; it was probably too late in the afternoon to still be lying in bed, but Molly was out for the day with the boyfriend none of them had yet to meet, and it was Saturday after all, so she didn't feel too guilty. She was just starting to think about giving up on the whole day, and letting herself drift back into sleep when her phone buzzed on the nightstand next to her. She reached out blindly from underneath the covers, and slid open the lock screen to a new text message.

_Hello. This is James Moriarty; Leslie's friend. _

_She gave me your number the other day, and I just wanted to make sure that you are truly Mary. Wouldn't be the first time she's given me the number of some bent bloke for a laugh. JM_

James Moriarty. Mary vaguely remembered telling one of her regular clients; the mother of two well behaved, yet mischievous daschaunds that she could give out her number to the brother of her boyfriend.

It wasn't that Mary was so desperate she was just handing her number out to anybody who could have the faintest of interest, but, she was _nearing_ that point of being so desperate she would hand out her number to anybody who could have the faintest interest, so when daschaunds mom told told her about the lawyer with his own flat, a country home in Sussex, and his own car; bought, not leased, Mary couldn't help but be a little bit curious.

She rubbed some of the sleep from her eyes, and typed out a response to him.

_Yes, I truly am Mary._

_Cheers. So, Li, seems to think that you and I would get on, then. JM_

_No offense to you; she made out to sound like a lovely person, but she at one time thought I would get on well with a man who bred cats in his mum's basement. _

_David? I know him! I bought a cat from him. Lovely thing; I call her socks. JM_

Mary laughed, and snuggled down into her blankets a little deeper.

_I bought one as well. I named her lulu._

There was a pause between her last text, and his reply. Mary tried not to be impatient; she didn't know this man; and what they were doing could hardly be called a conversation, but the butterflies of anticipation had started to flutter around her stomach. After about a minute there was another buzz from her phone.

_A drink? Tonight? JM_

She thought for a moment; it wouldn't be crazy; this was how these things started, and it wasn't like he was a complete stranger she had met over the internet or anything; someone she knew, knew him after all.

_Why not? _

_Wonderful. _

_I'll meet you at the London club; 2030. JM_

_I look forward to it._

_As do I, Mary. JM_

Mary dropped her phone into the blankets of the bed, and closed her eyes tight with a smile grazing over her lips. She would sleep a bit longer; best to be as fresh as possible, have a bowl of strawberries and cream, check in with the clinic, and have a nice hot shower with a wax to her legs and a few other intimate places (just in case a drink became a little more than a drink, not that Mary was the kind of girl to roll into bed on the first date), and properly get ready. The London Club was no joke; she likely wouldn't even be allowed in there if she wasn't meeting someone who obviously had his own membership.

Maybe being a little desperate was going to pay off in the end.

"Are you wearing pants?" John asked when Sherlock came sauntering out from his bedroom and through the kitchen the next morning. John had managed, surprisingly, to survive through the night, as did all of his prized possessions, and those that weren't so prized. John thought to himself, that maybe Sherlock was capable of being a decent human being after all.

Sherlock yawned, and tightened the belt of the dressing gown wrapped around his pale frame.

"No." Sherlock answered, swiftly.

He sat across from John in his chair, crossed his ankles over each other, and picked up the unread section of the paper.

"Why?"

"I wasn't in the mood to get dressed."

"Oh. Alright then."

It was as good enough of an answer as John thought he was going to get out of Sherlock, and while it didn't make sense to John to sit around with your same sex flat mate, naked but for a thin piece of silk, Sherlock didn't exactly ever make a lot of sense. Besides, if Sherlock didn't want to get dressed, it was his prerogative not to.

"Wait, if you weren't in the 'mood to get dressed', that means you woke up undressed."

"Yes, John."

"You sleep naked?"

"Most of the time."

John had to shake away a suddenly intrusive image of Sherlock, naked between his sheets. "But I've seen you change into pyjamas at night. I've seen you come out of your room in pyjamas."

"I like comfort as much as the next person. I don't want to wear my trousers all night, especially when I don't always know if I'm going to sleep or not"

"So, when you go to bed, you take your pyjamas off and just get into bed?"

Sherlock nodded, and continued to try and read the paper.

John had no idea why he was asking so many questions about Sherlock's apparent nakedness, but he couldn't seem to stop himself.

"If it's going to bother you I can get dressed." Sherlock offered.

"No, it doesn't bother me. I just-I didn't know is all. Like I said, I've just always seen you dressed." John nervously laughed, and set his paper down on the small table next to his chair, "I think I'll go down to the dry cleaners; see if your coat is done."

"That's a wonderful idea, John."

"Do you want to come with?"

"No; I have an annoying meeting with Mycroft in about twenty minutes."

"Right, well, you enjoy that."

Sherlock turned the page of his paper, and glanced over the top at John, "Oh believe me; I won't."

When John was gone, Sherlock put down his paper, and went into the kitchen looking for tea, but the kettle was empty of water. He sighed, and filled it up and clicked it on. He took down one of his mugs, or maybe it was John's; Sherlock wasn't sure anymore what belonged to whom. He dropped in a tea bag, and waited for the water to boil. A meeting with Mycroft was not on his list of favorite things to do; and the frustration and anger it was causing to churn inside of him made him want to run up to John's bedroom, pull down all of his jumpers from his wardrobe, and throw them in a bathtub full of acid, despite the fact that he spent the majority of the night talking himself out of doing that very thing. He had decided that he would only ruin John's jumpers if the stain couldn't be gotten out of the coat; after all, it was only an accident, and John did take a quick and correct course of action; no need for a punishment that didn't fit the crime.

The water was boiling, so Sherlock poured it over the tea bag, and let it steep. From the window in the kitchen he heard a car door close, and then the creak of the front door to the building.

Mycroft.

Sherlock sighed, and took his mug into the living room to sit back down in his chair. He popped a cigarette in his mouth from the pack in the pocket of his dressing gown, and lit it just before Mycroft opened the door to the flat, and greeted him with a disapproving smirk, his umbrella (ever present at his side) tapped against the door while he closed it again, behind him.

"Really, Sherlock; smoking just to annoy me?"

"Don't flatter yourself. I'm smoking, dear brother, because I have never been good with deadlines."

"Having some trouble with your composition?"

"Not trouble; it's just been a while since I've been pushed into composing. I generally like to do it at my leisure; when I'm inspired."

"Hmm, yes. The last was two years ago? Well, if you're having that difficult of a time with it, we can always make this season a reprise of your Tribute to the 60's and 70's."

Sherlock gritted his teeth, "I'll get it done."

"I see you've had no trouble with your solos." Sherlock grabbed the paper Mycroft had picked up was holding in his hands so quickly he was sure that it must have sliced into his finger, but if it had, Mycroft made no indication of any such injury. "Tell me, Sherlock; are you having trouble because you aren't the one to be conducting, or because of who is conducting in your stead?"

"I assure you, Mycroft, that I have no issue with Victor."

"Good. Keep going with these, and I'll be back in a week. Victor changed his schedule, so he will be here the third week in May rather than the last."

Mycroft opened the door to leave, "So, start preparing yourself to see him again." He said, and closed the door, before Sherlock had the opportunity to say anything back to him.

Sherlock bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from shouting at the door, and picked himself up from the chair, only to throw himself back down on the couch, where he set his pack of cigarette and his lighter on his chest, and stayed until John came home.

He must have drifted off into some kind of sleep, because the sound of John yelling upon his return made Sherlock jump, and slide off from the couch a little.

"Oi!" John had Sherlock's coat in a plastic bag draped over his arm. "If you're going to faff about naked, could you at least wear a longer dressing gown?"

Sherlock arched his neck up from where it laid against the couch, and smiled briefly at the sight of his coat; clean and home where it belonged.

"Honestly, John; it's the same bits you have. Do you not shower on your weekly visits to the gym?"

"Well, yes, but that's a bit different. I'm not saying you can't be naked, I'm just asking you wear something longer, so I don't have to accidentally catch a glimpse of more than you than I care to. Just keep your cock out of my eye sight, alright?"

"Keep my cock out of your eye sight?" Sherlock repeated, with a laugh. "This is a gay thing, isn't it?" He asked.

"What? No. You know I don't care in the slightest that you're gay, Sherlock."

"Yes, but, you do care that you are."

John laughed, "I am not gay."

"I'm inclined to believe you, but you are at the very least bi-sexual, and you've never dealt with it."

"Sherlock. I am very comfortable in my sexuality. There is nothing to 'deal' with."

Sherlock tugged at the ties of his dressing gown, loosening the right knot, until it came undone, and the gown split open. "Then this won't bother you." Sherlock said, letting the fabric slip from his shoulders and fall onto the floor.

John tensed, and he swallowed hard. It bothered him. It very much bothered him, but he wasn't going to let Sherlock knew that. Sherlock wasn't going to win whatever this strange, twisted game was that they had stumbled into.

"No. It doesn't bother me."

"And it won't bother you if I were to just sit down... like this?"

"I insist that you do. Spend the rest of the evening naked, Sherlock. I don't care one bit."

"Fine, then, I will."

"Fine." John said, and brought Sherlock's coat back into his bedroom.

Mary had followed her plan from the morning quite well. She slept, ate, did one of her exercise DVD's, showered, waxed, drank several cups of tea to calm her nerves, and when that wasn't working well enough, opened a bottle of wine to have just a glass (which, after the second wax, turned into two glasses).

She was standing in her bedroom, in a pair of Molly's newly bought black kickers, and her favorite red bra. She had every pair of nice trousers, and every blouse, and every dress that she owned lying across her bed, and she had put on nearly all of them; three times over, but she had no clue as to what she should actually wear, and only two more hours to figure it all out.

Molly still wasn't home, so she had to go to her next best option.

She sighed, and still clad in only her underwear, bundled up the clothes in her arms, and struggled up the steps until she made it into John and Sherlock's flat, where she dropped the bundle onto the floor.

"I need help." She announced.

Both John and Sherlock looked up from their chairs.

"I can see that." John said.

Mary started to explain what she was doing in their flat, in the state that she was in, when she realized that something was a bit off in their flat.

"Why are you naked?" Mary asked Sherlock.

"I'm proving a point to John."

"Is that what you're doing?" John asked, "I thought you were just being an idiot."

"What sort of point needs to be made without clothes?" Mary asked.

"Sherlock thinks that I'm bothered by his nudity because I have some sort of repressed sexual identity crises."

"You are. And you do."

"I'm bothered by it, because it's just common decency to stay dressed in front of your friends."

"If you recall, I was dressed; I had on a robe this morning-you made me take it off."

"You took it off on your own!"

Mary opened her mouth to say something else, but it just sort of hung there open like a fish for a second, before she shook her head, and was able to bring herself back into reality; or as close to reality as one could get in John and Sherlock's fat.

"Right, if you boys could stop for just one second; I need your help."

"Why are you naked?" John asked.

"If you would shut your mouth for a second; I'll tell you."

John crossed his arms over his chest, and nodded for Mary to continue.

"Thank you. I have a date tonight, and I don't know what to wear."

"And you want me to help you figure it out?" John asked her.

"No; I want Sherlock to. Say what you will about his appalling social skills, but the man knows fashion."

Sherlock grinned toward John, and lifted himself up from the chair to walk over to Mary's pile of clothes, "Let's see what we have here." He picked up a pair of dark brown trousers and threw them aside, and then another pair of black ones, and a purple, sheer blouse.

"Where are you going for this date?" he asked.

"The London Club."

"The London Club?" John repeated, incredulously.

"Yes, John; _The London Club_. He's a lawyer, and he has a membership."

"How did you meet him?"

"I haven't yet."

"A set up? Oh, Mary."

"Don't 'Oh Mary' me; you don't even have a date at all."

"Yes, I do actually; tonight." John glanced down at his watch, and took notice of the time, "Shit."

He got up from the chair, and went to go shower, and Sherlock, still naked, rummaged through the clothes in the middle of the floor.

"And this is the underwear you've chosen to go with?" he asked her.

"Yes."

"Hmmm. Just drinks, or dinner as well?"

"Drinks; I think."

"And you've waxed, so obviously you're hoping for the night to end in a shag."

Mary laughed, "Do you know how ridiculous we must look right now?"

"I'm sure people have looked much more ridiculous that this before." He held out a black piece of fabric to her, "Wear this one."

It was thigh length; a solid black strapless dress with an intricate lace that scalloped at the bottom and went down a few inches longer than the dress underneath to give an extra peek of thigh. The neckline had the same scalloping that formed into a plunging "v". The lace had sleeves as well that would go down to Mary's elbows. It was tight, and sensual, and feminine, and Mary thought it would be absolutely perfect.

"Thank you, Sherlock."

"Of course."

Mary picked up the remainder of her clothes from the floor, and ran back downstairs to finish getting ready.


	4. Chapter 4

Mary stood in front of The London Club; the dress that Sherlock picked out for her hugging her body, and a subtle pair of black heels enveloping her feet. Her short, blonde bob curled in several places so that bounced when she walked. She didn't want to be nervous, but she very much was. Just because he was a lawyer, and just because he had a membership to one of the most exclusive places in London, didn't mean that he was an interesting guy, or that he was good looking. For all Mary knew, he was an overweight bore, who used his status and his brother's girlfriend to get dates for him, and Mary would have to enact her emergency out, which seeing as how John was also out on a date was going to be rather difficult; she doubted very much that Sherlock would come down to the club and pretend to be a jealous boyfriend (though she assumed he probably had a membership himself). Greg would do it if she asked, but he hadn't been home all day, and Mary had no idea what he was doing.

On the other hand, if he wasn't an ugly dullard, he might be gorgeous, and intelligent, and, rich, and Mary would stand no chance in his presence; an awkward orphan, who spent most of her time talking to animals rather than people, and Mary would make some stupid joke Greg had told her, or try and recite an impressive fact she heard Sherlock mention once, but get it wrong. Mary could very easily not be good enough for this man; she quite obviously hadn't been good enough for any of the other ones before.

Mary finally managed to make it into the lobby of the club (unable to go any further than that without an escort, or someone with a membership (and really, how demeaning was that?). She was wringing her hands together, and trying not to look as desperately afraid as she felt, when a soft hand pressed down onto her shoulder.

"Mary?" a rich, Irish brogue flew passed her ear, and Mary felt her skin start to tingle.

She turned around, the hand falling away from her shoulder, and put on a smile to face him.

"Yes." She said, holding out her hand.

He smiled back at her; wrinkles creasing in the skin around the corners of his brown eyes, and dimples punctuating his cheeks the further back he pulled his lips. He wore a simple cut black suit with a white shirt underneath, and his hair was dark, and a little bit spikey; a little bit messy. He was, in short, absolutely gorgeous.

"James." He said, clasping his hand in hers. "You are just as beautiful, if not more so, as Leslie told me you would be."

Mary blushed, "Thank you."

"Should we go inside? I'm terribly sorry about all the formality of having to make you wait out here."

"It was no problem."

"Good." James gently put his hand to the small of her back; it was almost as if he wasn't even touching her, and they pushed their way through the small, milling crowd of others, who just like Mary moments ago, had no way of getting inside.

Most of the tables in the club were made for two people. They were situated around a great, golden antique fountain and pond in the center of the room. Everything was black wood, with white and golden accents. There was a bar off toward the back, and flowers and trees everywhere. Mary wasn't sure if it was what she had expected or something completely different.

James led her to a small table next to the fountain, and pulled out the chair for her before settling down across from her. There was a candle flickering between them in a short and square, heavy, opaque, black holder.

"If you'd like to look for an appetizer, I can order us a drink at the bar." James offered, handing a slim menu over to Mary.

"That would be lovely; I'd like a greyhound please."

James left the table to go over to the bar. Mary watched him until she couldn't see him anymore, and buried her eyes into the menu. She closed it when she had figured out what she wanted, and a waiter came over to take her order.

If she didn't look out of place, she certainly felt like she was anyhow. Mary knew that she was middle class, and she was proud of being in the middle of the socio-economic system, but she did fancy herself to be a bit classier than most of the women in her class, able to fetch a bloke just a bit out of her reach, but James; James was something completely different.

He came back with their drinks; the greyhound for her, and a rusty nail for himself. Mary laughed quietly as she wondered who in the world came up with the ridiculous names for these drinks.

"You're Leslie's brother in law, then?" She asked, taking a sip from the straw in her glass. She normally threw the straw into the bin, but she thought this was the kind of place where unless it was a martini or a cosmopolitan, a lady drank her cocktail from the straw.

"Yes; well, they aren't married, but have been together for years, and they do have the dogs together." He laughed just a little bit.

"Yes, I remember when Leslie was thinking about adopting Rufus with him."

"I'm more of a cat person, to be honest." James said.

"Yes. Socks, you said?"

"Yea; she's white, except for black on her feet, which make her look like she's wearing socks."

Mary laughed, and took a small sip from her straw again.

"Well, that's disappointing." John said, coming down from his bedroom, fully dressed for his date. He threw himself down in his chair, "Jeanette cancelled on me. Something about an old friend who came into town a day early. We've reschedule for next weekend."

"That's nice." Sherlock said from where he sat at the desk.

John shook his head, "are you still doing this naked thing?" He asked, looking at Sherlock's bare back in the chair.

"Honestly, I kind of forgot I wasn't dressed."

"Well, why don't you put some clothes on, and come to dinner with me?"

"What?"

"I'm not going to waste my reservations. It's that Chinese place you like."

Sherlock hummed in thought, and got up from the chair to walk over to the couch and sit right back down, "Do something for me first."

"Something like what?"

"Sit down next to me." Sherlock patted the empty space next to him; not the other cushion of the couch, but the space very near to him.

John furrowed his brows in a bit of confusion, and slowly got up from the chair. He walked over to Sherlock and started to sit down again, but Sherlock held up a hand to stop him.

"Take your clothes off first." He said.

"Are you mad?"

"Possibly, but take them off."

"Why; what is us both being starkers going to prove to you?"

"It's not about proving anything to _me_, John. Just get undressed. I'll look away."

Sherlock closed his eyes, and bowed his head down to his lap. John sighed. He had no idea how he got himself into situations like this with Sherlock, or why he let himself continue to be dragged into them even when they got as ridiculous as John undressing in the middle of their living room, in front of Sherlock (it didn't matter much that his eyes were closed; he was still right there.)

"Have you done it?" Sherlock asked.

"Give me a second." John said, unbuttoning his trousers and folding them over his arm to set them down over the arm of the couch. He unbuttoned his shirt, and laid it across his trousers. He hesitated a little at his pants.

"Do I have to take it all off?"

"Yes."

"Fine." John stepped out of his pants, and sat down, slowly, next to Sherlock.

Sherlock lifted his head, and opened his eyes, but he made no move to look over at John.

"Is there a-"

"Shh."

John quieted, and sat there with Sherlock. The leather was cold underneath his arse, and he could feel the heat coming off from Sherlock's thigh; so close it that if John shifted the right way they would touch. Neither one of them said a word, and John had no idea what Sherlock was on about; though he never was very sure. After a few minutes John started to feel tense. Not about the strange situation that he was still in, but about something else; about a lie; an omission he had been carrying around with him for years, that had never bothered him before.

_Damn Sherlock_. John thought, and took a deep breath.

"I am, you know?" John said, quietly.

"You are what?"

"Bi- sexual."

"I know that."

"But _how_ did you know that?"

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "You've not told anyone before?"

"No. Well, I've talked about it with Harry, but no, you're the first I've told."

"When did you know?"

"When does anyone find out about their sexuality? In Uni, of course. I was still getting over my breakup with Mary, and thinking I was never going to see her again, and there was this bloke in my chemistry lab."

"Chemistry? I see the appeal already."

"Shut it."

"Apologies. Please continue."

"I would see him in class, and I would think, 'wow, he's got a really nice smile, or he looks really good in that shirt today; it brings out his eyes.' And I thought nothing of it; I was certain that I was straight, and I was comfortable enough with that to be able to appreciate another man's beauty. But then I started thinking about how he would look out of his shirt, or what that smile would look like against my lips. I never did sleep with him, but not long after I took notice of him, I found a guy at some party.

And that's just what I did for a while. It was new, so I wanted it all the time. I never dated any of them; I've always preferred my relationships to be with women." John was quiet for a minute, and Sherlock didn't say anything back.

"When did you know that you were gay?" John asked.

"I knew when I was twelve, but I didn't accept it until I was twenty."

"Why so long? Your parents don't seem the homophobic type."

"Oh, They aren't; they never were. I just- I was strange enough as it was; I didn't want another thing to set me apart. But eventually I got tired of trying to keep up with my peers; I didn't even like them anyway."

"You don't date."

"Like I said, I'm strange. Most people can't stand to be around me. Even mind blowing sex isn't enough to keep them."

"Mind blowing, really?" John laughed.

"Do you know me to not be an expert in anything?"

"The solar system?"

"Anything important."

"Sex is more important than knowing the Earth revolves around the Sun?"

"Of course it is."

They both laughed.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmmm."

"Can we get dressed now, and go eat?"

"I suppose. My arse is a bit tired of sticking to all this leather. If we choose to go nude full time I suggest we get all fabric furniture."

"Yea, that won't be happening."

"Did you drive tonight?" James asked Mary now that they were standing out in the cool April night.

"No. I took the tube."

"I would be happy to give you a lift home; or if you'd like to share a cup of tea with me; I'm not very far."

Mary smiled, "Tea would be great."

James returned her smile, and Mary was finding that the more he did it, the more she was unable to resist him. He slipped his arm through hers and reached into the pocket of his blazer to hand over his valet ticket.

Of course, when the car was pulled up at the kerb in front of them, it was a BMW, and of course it was a convertible, and of course it was sleek and black, and softly rounded at the edges. James opened the door for Mary, and slid in her into the buttery leather seat. He jogged around to the driver's side and jumped in like a kid jumping into the seat of a roller coaster.

The engine roared, at the start and then evened out into a purr that Mary could feel vibrate against her thighs in the seat. James' childlike grin stayed on his face as he effortlessly maneuvered down the streets of London with only one hand on the steering wheel; the other rubbing circles across Mary's knee.

Mary felt like she had opened the door to Wonderland the moment she heard James' voice rumble through her ears. She was in another world with fancy cocktails she could only remember tasting once; at a dinner party her grandmother (the one who wore a string of pearls around her neck no matter what else she was earing) had thrown, a world where she sat in the front seat of a BMW that cost more than a years worth of her rent, and where the man driving the car was a delectable mixture of class and sophistication, and sex.

And just when Mary was trying to get a grasp on this strange world she had flung herself into, James drove passed a tall, sparkling building that seemed to rise high up into the sky, and pulled into an underground parking garage. He brought the car to a space with his initials painted onto the wall, and jumped out to open Mary's door. He slipped his arm back into hers like it had been earlier, and walked, with her heels clicking against the cement to a lift.

"The very top." He said, motioning with his chin for Mary to press one of the gold framed buttons.

She pressed the number 26, and they stood, linked together in silence but for the whirl of the motor and the cables that surrounded them outside the confinement of the lift.

The doors opened directly to James' home; white tile in front of the lift, white carpet after that; wooden tables, o dark they were nearly black, against the walls, holding works of art, books, and what looked to be his mail.

Mary lost her breath at the sheer expanse and openness of his flat; everything was gray or that nearly black-gray or white or cream. There was some gold and some silver, and it was all very rich, and decadent. There was a wall in the living room, behind the couch, that was made entirely of windows from end to end; bringing the London night right to Mary's feet.

"This is amazing." Mary said, slipping her coat from her shoulders and feeling James take it from her and hang it on a rack by the lift.

"Thank you." He said. "Did you want tea?"

"Oh yes; please."

James took her hand, and they padded through the living room, passed a dining room table that had been set as if he was expecting guests for a dinner party at any moment, and into the kitchen; chocolate brown and stainless steel.

Mary had half been expecting some kind of staff to appear to take his jacket or make them their tea, but no one did. James unbuttoned himself, and laid his jacket across the back of a chair at the kitchen island, and pulled out another chair for Mary to sit.

She watched as he reached up into a cupboard and brought down a bamboo box. He opened it, and crinkled his nose at the selection he found.

"I'm afraid I haven't had the chance to get to the shopping; I have Darjeeling or Irish Breakfast."

"Darjeeling would be lovely; thanks."

He smiled, and took two packets of Darjeeling tea from the box and then replaced it back where it belonged. He put water in the kettle, set it to boil, and pulled two mugs from a small gathering on the countertop. He opened the packets and dropped in the bags.

As they waited for the water to boil, they went back into the living room, and stood between the sofa and a floor lamp, looking out the window.

"I can't get over this view." Mary said.

"Yes, it is one to admire." James stood next to her at the window, as she watched the stars sparkle. It wasn't often that you got to see the stars with all the light and fog of London, but they were so far above the ground, that Mary felt she could watch the heavens go on forever.

"Mary."

"Yes." She turned to face him, and before she had any real time to think, James' lips crashed into hers. Had he been anybody else, Mary might have pulled away, might have given them a slap in the face for taking something she hadn't yet offered, but James was the kind of man who didn't ask; who didn't need to ask, because nobody ever told him no.

John and Sherlock had eaten together before, usually with at least one other of their friends, but sometimes, they had gone alone to the Italian restaurant down the street from the flat, so it wasn't strange to John to be there with Sherlock, but it was strange to be there on a Saturday night when everyone else around them was out on a date. Likely, the other patrons of the restaurant thought the two of them were also out on a date, and, in a sense they were, but no, really, they weren't.

"Season starts soon." John said, tapping his finger against the side of his wine glass. He had already had two since they ordered the bottle and appetizer. Had he been there with Jeanette, he wouldn't have been finished with his first glass, but Sherlock knew of John's propensity to drink, so he wasn't shy around the bottle.

John wasn't like his sister Harry. He didn't need the alcohol, but he liked it, and perhaps he liked it a bit more than everyone else, but John had it under control; he always had it under control.

"September, which means I have until the end of May to get the pieces rehearsal ready."

"You're not conducting, yea?"

"Victor Trevor will be the visiting conductor, allowing me to play with the others."

John laughed, "You mean allowing yourself to show off your skills with the bow rather than the baton?"

Sherlock' lips curved into a quick grin before they d settled against the run of his glass, and he could take a drink. John suddenly thought about exquisite that day red liquid looked pushing through the desk of his pink lips.

"Trevor. That name sounds familiar."

"I might have mentioned him before. We went to the conservatory together. We lost touch a few years back."

"Oh. Is that going to be awkward for you?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "of course not. Why would it?"

"A friend, you haven't seen in a while."

"I never said he was a friend."

"But, he was."

"Yes." Sherlock left his answer at that, and John didn't pry him anymore.

They finished their dinner, and took a taxi back to the flat. The feeling John experienced upon walking into the flat after a lovely dinner with Sherlock, hanging their coats up on the same hooks they always hung, walking together up the stairs, toeing their shoes off at the door, and comfortably sitting in a silence with one another, was surprisingly warm and pleasant. It was a routine that they easily slipped into, repeatedly, and John started thinking how that must be what it's like for long term couples, and how wonderful it must be to be able to do that with someone, but to not have to go to bed alone, like both John and Sherlock would eventually do, because they were only friends.


	5. Chapter 5

Mary sank into the kiss. Her fingers daring to tickle at the fine hair at the nape of his neck. James' fingers found a purchase on Mary in much the same place.

"You taste beautiful." James said, pressing a sloppy kiss to the inside of Mary's thigh. She whimpered in protest at the sudden loss of contact between his tongue and her clit.

It had been a long time since Mary had let herself be this vulnerable with a man. Sherlock had been right; there hadn't been anyone since her final break up with John worth seeing a shiny new pair of knickers let alone being able to slide them off from her.

James' was relentless; pushing against her with the very tip of his tongue in fast, anti-clockwise circles. He had only been at it for a minute, maybe two at most, and already Mary was panting wildly, her fingers itching at her breasts to dig into his hair. When he flattened his tongue against the entire expanse of her clitoris and labia, she did dig her fingers in, her manicured nails scratching at his scalp. He drove his tongue into her pussy next, and she moaned with an arch of her hips off the coffee table she had been laughing on, the edge digging into the small of her back.

James lifted his head for a breath, kissed at her thighs again, and slid his hands up her body to squeeze her nipples between his fingers. Then he was back in her again, fucking her with his tongue as expertly as she imagined he could wish his cock. He thrust his tongue up and down; in and out. He pushed against her belly with one strong arm, holding her down while her body fought to rise against it. With his other hand, he worked a finger furiously at her clit, and Mary was lost.

She writhed, and she felt the sweat tickling from her back, down the underside of her thighs. It had been so long since she had come from just this. Even if she had let someone else get to this point, her experience had been that going down on her was just a way to get her ready to be fucked; almost done as a favour to her in lieu of using cold, lifeless lubricant. But James showed no signs of leaving her hanging on the edge of orgasm; he wasn't even undressed, save his shoes and the jacket he had taken off earlier.

"Oh, God." She called out to the ceiling above her. She was close; so close, and could feel herself starting to be consumed.

James lifted his arm off her belly, took his finger out of her, and replaced it with the thick of his tongue. Mary's hips immediately bucked into his face; she knew she had to be suffocating him, but all she needed was a little more.

James sucked and lapped, and pushed, and at one point, she thought he even bit her a little. And then she fell off the cliff, banging delightfully against the rock hard walls as she went.

"Fuck- oh, God- Jesus- James!"

He didn't abandon her right away, but slowed his pace to almost non existent while Mary collected her breath, and tried to come back to herself. When he did sit back, bum resting against his calves where he had been kneeling in front of her, he cracked his neck to either side, and wiped his mouth against the sleeve of his shirt.

"Alright?" He asked.

"Amazing." Mary answered, and slithered off the table, so she was kneeling just in front of him.

"I'm feeling a bit underdressed." She said, reaching out and undoing the buttons of James' shirt. He watched her, unbuttoned his cuffs, and let her slide the shirt from his shoulders.

He was quite exquisite under all those expensive threads. He stood, unfastening the buckle of his belt, and unzipping his flies. Mary stayed where she was, rising directly on her knees when James did away with his trousers. He had left on his tight, black boxer brief combination, and Mary immediately slipped her fingers just underneath the waistband, as she mouthed kisses around and underneath his navel. He groaned, low and deep at the feeling of her lips against his skin, and Mary smiled against him. She tugged at his pants, freeing the erection she knew had been trapped inside for quite some time.

Damn, he had control over himself.

Mary took him in her hands first; closer around his circumference, her small fingers not quite wrapped back around to one another. She flicked her wrist as she twisted her first, and James moaned again. Mary swiped a finger across the tip, gathering pre-come and using it as lube.

"You are amazing." James said, reaching fingers down to her chin to tip her face towards him.

His cheeks were beginning to flush, his chest rising up and down just a bit faster than what she would have expected as normal. He still looked very much the calm man in control Mary had quickly learned he was, but slowly, she was making him come undone.

"Thank you." She said, and tightened her grip with a flick of her wrist.

Mary had every intention of taking James into her mouth; tasting him, letting him come down her throat if he wanted to, but James seemed to have something else in mind. He batted her hand away, wrapped his fingers around her wrist, and quite nearly flipped her over onto her hands and knees in the middle of the living room floor. She gasped in surprise at the sudden change, and gasped again when she felt him unceremoniously push into her, and his fingers dig deep into her hips, pulling her back against him.

Mary counted being shagged from behind among the handful of things she hated, but right in that moment, it felt incredibly delicious. She didn't know if it was the angle he had her pushed into, the way that his nails were quite nearly drawing blood, or the string of curses he was yelling into the flat, but she felt amazing; filthy, and beautiful.

She could tell that he was going to come soon- it was always easy to tell when a man was on the verge- and Mary, quite badly, wanted to come again; with him. She pressed two fingers against herself, and circled and pushed while James kept thrusting into her. She wasn't completely aware when he pulled out of her until she felt a warm, wet sensation against her back. She hadn't come yet, and was working wildly at herself when James, still recovering from his orgasm leaned over her, pushing his sticky mess between their two sweating bodies, and laid his fingers over Mary's; adding more force and ferocity to her shameless wanking.

"That's it, Mary." He said, low in her ear. "Come for me again." He rocked against her; his cock teasing at the cleft of her arse.

She made a sound that could only be described as a whinge, and James kissed at her neck, still following the pattern her fingers were making with his own.

Mary did come again. Loudly, almost painfully, and gorgeously. James kept her fingers pinned down; moving them to the point of over sensitization, as Mary kept screaming through the orgasm that should have ended, but she didn't bat him away- she didn't cry out for him to stop. She wanted to be completely consumed by him, like no one had ever consumed her before.

"I had a nice time, tonight." Karen said to Greg as they approached the doorstep of the flat they used to share.

"Did you?" Her smile was big and hopeful, and a bit more sincere than Greg had seen in a while, but all the optimism held on her face couldn't bring Greg to answer how he knew she wanted to hear.

"Did I have a nice time on my scheduled date with my wife?" He asked, and her smile immediately faded into the more sour expression he had gotten used to over the years.

"Yes, Greg. Did you enjoy the restaurant and the music; my company?"

"I did, yes."

"But-?"

"But I am your husband, and you had to pencil me in around gallery openings, and...dates!"

"I didn't pencil you in. This is what we do; the second and last Saturday of the month is always for us."

"And I'm supposed to be grateful for that?"

"Would you rather not see each other at all?" She asked.

"At least then I would probably know where we stand."

"I love you Greg-you know that I do."

"Then let me come beck home. It's been so long Karen."

"I need time, Greg..."

"How much more time could you possibly need?! We have been married for ten years; separated for six of them. For God's sake, you're shagging other men!"

"And aren't you shagging other women?!"

"No! I haven't been with anyone other than you since-" Greg stopped himself abruptly.

"Since her?"

"I haven't seen her or spoken to her in years, Karen. What do I have to do for you to forgive me?"

"You were sleeping with my PA before we were married."

"But I did marry you-I loved you."

"And you kept sleeping with her!"

"I made a mistake."

"If she hadn't broken things off; if the guilt hadn't finally Warren away as her, would you have ended it? Would you have felt bad enough to tell me the truth?"

"The truth broke us apart."

"No, Greg; your inability to keep your dick in your pants broke us apart. And I'm trying to forgive you; I really am, but I just don't know how I can ever trust you again." Karen dug into her purse for her keys, and stuck one in the lock, "I have an early meeting. I'll ring you."

"Yea, fine."

"Goodnight Greg." She said with a slightly sad smile, her fingers brushing against the edge of the now open door rather than the edges of Greg's face.

He watched until she was inside her flat, and then pushed his heels into the pavement to turn and head toward the road to catch a taxi back to Baker Street.

The building was nearly dark when he stepped out of the taxi; the only light visible was something dim from the windows of John and Sherlock' flat. He sighed at the idea of walking up all those stairs and going into his empty flat; the dishes from his lonely dinner the night before still in the sink, no one waiting for him to say hello to.

He unlocked the door, looked up the staircase in front of him, and then down the other staircase. He shrugged his shoulders, and felt around on his key ring until he found what he was looking for. He descended the stairs, and unlocked the bottom floor flat. Even though, no one was home their either, at least it was comfortable, and there would be sweets. He pulled the key out, and opened up the door to see Molly.

"Oh, I wasn't expecting anyone to be here." Greg said, almost closing the door back on himself.

"Well, I do live here." Molly said, laughing.

"Right, but I thought you were out."

"No, well, I was. Jim cancelled our date; I was at the bookstore."

"Oh." Greg pushed the door open, and went into the flat. He sat down next to Molly, where she was curled up on the sofa with a throw over her legs, and a book between her fingers; Greg wasn't sure he had ever seen her watch the telly.

"You look nice." She said, "Were you on a date?"

"Sort of; I was out with Karen."

"Oh. Is that-I mean, is it-" she shook her head, and took in a deep breath, "what exactly is the deal with the two of you?"

Greg laughed, "I'm fairly certain that she wants to get a divorce, but she comes from money; that messed up old kind of money where it's in better taste to stay married, even if you haven't lived with your husband for six years, and sleep with strangers more often than you do with him."

"Why do you put up with it?"

"Punishment I suppose."

Molly lifted a confused eyebrow his way.

"She left me after she found out about an affair I was having with her PA."

"Oh." She said quietly, "I didn't know that."

"Not one of my better decisions."

"Perhaps not, but Greg-" she turned, and set a gentle hand against his knee, "you can't keep living like this; you can't let her punish you; can't punish yourself for the rest of your life. You made a mistake, but you're a good man."

"Do you think so?" Greg asked. It had been years since he had felt good.

Molly smiled; bright and innocent, "Of course.


	6. Chapter 6

John's rescheduled date with Jeanette never happened. John found out it was because she _'sort of had a boyfriend'_, but that her interest in John had been genuine. So, instead of the plans he had spent all day anticipating, John made tea and curled into his chair with a blanket and found a book of moderate interest from the shelf by the fireplace to read. Sherlock was set at the desk, tapping his fingers against his tablet, and creating a harmonious piano sound that, though quiet from where John was sitting, was soothing, though nowhere near as soothing as the violin he was most accustomed to hearing.

Just as John was finding the tempo and the pattern in the melody, it stopped, and Sherlock turned toward him, quite abruptly.

"John, would you like to go to the cinema?" he asked

John put his book down in his lap, and looked up at Sherlock "You hate the cinema."

"That was your plan though, wasn't it; with Jeanette?"

"Well, yes, but its okay, you're composing; I'm reading."

"I compose constantly, and you're reading a book about brain slices."

"It's interesting." John said in a miserable attempt of defending his words.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He stood from his chair, and held his hand down in front of John. "Come on, let's go."

John looked at it for a moment, and then looked up at Sherlock, an expectant smile on his face as he waited as patiently as he could for John to take his hand.

Sherlock was much like a child at the cinema. John wasn't sure if he found that surprising or not, but he did find it amusing. John paid for their tickets, and he also paid for the popcorn, chocolate raisins, licorice, and large lemonade Sherlock insisted on having. They found seats in the center of the room, and positioned themselves in the center of the row as well. John watched Sherlock eyes spark when the lights started to dim, and the trailers played.

He didn't see him watch much television; the occasional movie night at Mary's (where he would complain about the plots or bombard everyone with facts about the score), and he watched the news, and tolerated the crap John watched after a long day, but the idea of Sherlock at the cinema, of being excited by the images on the screen threw John for a very pleasant loop.

In the darkness, they remained quiet. Sherlock offered John a taste of each of his treats, (except for the chocolate covered raisins-he kept those for himself.), and a drink of his lemonade. It was nice it was comfortable; it felt like something they had been doing together for years, though it was actually the first time.

"The score was amazing." Sherlock said as he and John left the theatre, and blinked their eyes into the bright lobby lights. Sherlock dropped his trash in the bin, and walked through the door John held open.

"I suppose you were able to pick out all the intricacies of it, yes? "

"Heavy use of oboe; that's an oft neglected wind instrument. There's generally only one or two in a well-equipped band or orchestra; I only have one, but he had at least seven, and two bassoons!"

John laughed. "What is it like to have all that knowledge inside your head? And I don't just mean the music, but everything else you know. All those science books you have on the shelf; a professor of mine once told me that if you know science then you know everything there is to know about life."

"He's quite right."

They had walked three blocks, and neither had yet flagged down one of the taxis that passed them by. John usually left that to Sherlock; they always stopped for him, like magic, but Sherlock had his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, and they were walking close to one another without touching.

"I started music much older than most who take it up professionally do. I was eight, whereas Victor, for example, has been playing since he was three. I thought that I was going to grow up and be a scientist. I had all sorts of chemistry sets, and I dabbled in the autopsy of small animals I should happen to find dead in the garden, like frogs and field mice. I enjoyed looking at the world in an objective, logical way; I still do, but then something happened that I-which my science couldn't make sense of."

Sherlock lost his words for a moment; looked off into the distance like he was trying to find something there. John kept pace with his friend, kept his hands clasped casually behind his back, and said nothing; just waited until Sherlock was ready to start again, or ready to let it go if he didn't want to tell john anymore. It wouldn't be the first time that Sherlock left him hanging with only half the facts about his life.

"My mum bought me my first violin then." Shock continued his eyes back to the sidewalk in front of him, and his body less tense. "She had an instructor come three times a week, and I was made to practice every night. I didn't like it at first; I thought it made a terrible sound, and it took time away from my experiments. But, it turned out that I was quite good at it, and I started _wanting _to be better, and better until I was the best.

I was playing pieces that violinists who had been playing for decades couldn't play by the time I was twelve, I was composing my own concertos by fifteen, and my first symphony when I was seventeen; I got a scholarship to the conservatory.

It wasn't just that I was good at it; I did-I _do_ love the music. On paper, a composition is neat and orderly. No matter how many notes your put into a measure, how daring you choose to be with your range and your key, there are rules to be followed, and you can hear it in your head as you go, but it isn't real; not until you play it. When I play, when I conduct, when I listen; I'm feeling rather than seeing; not just the notes, but everything from my whole entire life. John, you can't imagine what it is I feel, and it's quite possibly the only time I ever feel anything at all."

John didn't know what to say to Sherlock. How could he say anything to that kind of admission from a man who was so guarded and so cold most of the time?

"What was it that happened?" John asked.

Sherlock stopped walking; causing John to pass him by before he realized Sherlock was no longer moving. John turned around to look at him; serene and yet sad.

"My dog died." He said with a calm and serious face, and then turned away to step out into the street and hail a cab to stop for them.

John took a moment to let Sherlock's words sink in, not sure if he was saddened by them, or if he was amused. He still hadn't figured it out by the time they had silently rode back home, had their tea and settled back into the domestic intricacies of their life.


	7. Chapter 7

"Do you want to go to dinner tonight, or, no- you're busy." John picked up his keys from the table; set them down again. He felt like an idiot for fumbling over his words. It was only Sherlock.

It had been several days since their date to the cinema. John wasn't even sure it had been a date, but that's what his head kept calling it even when he chided himself about being silly.

Sherlock set down his violin, and took out the pen between his teeth to regard John for a moment.

"No, dinner would be nice."

John smiled, "great. What are you in the mood for?"

"Italian is always filling."

"Angelo's then?"

Sherlock nodded, "Yes."

They walked the two blocks to the restaurant they frequented often. Angelo, a jovial, plump ginger, greeted them with a hug, and a hand clap like he did every time the pair walked through their door. Angelo had met his now wife after taking her to a small concert Sherlock held by the Thames two years earlier; he was very thankful.

Angelo showed then to their usual table, picked up the _reserved _sign, and disappeared. John shrugged out of his coat; Sherlock too.

They sat in a companionable silence waiting for Angelo to return with menus, the wine l list and a small flickering candle, such as he always did. At first, John had protested the candle altogether, then, he let it sit on the table, but blew out the flame. That night, however, John watched the fire sparkle against the frosted glass it was encased in, and left it alone, just as it was.

They ate. Sherlock ordered a small salad, and picked the chicken and the olives out of John's picatta, to which John had no objection, just as he never did, and they then ended their meal with dessert, on a whim. They sat and lingered over a final glass of wine in the near empty restaurant. John had a ridiculous feeling of not wanting to leave, not wanting to finish his conversation with Sherlock; not wanting to stop watching his face in the beautiful glow of the candle light. It felt as though, if they went home, together, the spell that they had somehow come under would be broken, and John very much wanted to stay enchanted.

But they did eventually pay their cheque, (rather, Sherlock paid) despite being told repeatedly that there was no need, and made the short walk back to Baker Street. All seemed quiet from the outside; and the inside as well. They hung their coats, and walked up the stairs together, as they had many nights before, and entered into their flat. Sherlock, unexpectedly stopped in the doorway to toe off his shoes, having stepped in a puddle on their way home, and John bumped into him, causing the tall man to lose hi balance, and fall into John's arms just a little bit; just enough, for John to lose his mind completely; already half lost staring into his eyes all night, and press his lips against Sherlock's in a brief, gentle kiss.

John quickly realized what he had done, and pulled away, almost too terrified to look at the shock and surprise across Sherlock's face.

"Shit- - Christ, Sherlock in sorry." He scrubbed his hand along the back of his neck, "I- the night just got to me I guess."

Sherlock, having regained his composure quickly, blinked a few times, "it's fine, John." He said.

John dug his toes into the hardwood, and fixated his eyes there as well. "I should probably go to bed before I do something even more stupid."

John backed away, and started to turn to run and hide in his bedroom for maybe the rest of his life, but most certainly for the remainder of the night, but he was stopped short by Sherlock's voice.

"Could you make me some tea first? Since you're going into the kitchen anyway."

"You want me to-you can't make your own bloody tea; this one time?"

John was thankful that Sherlock hadn't said anything against John's mistake, had attempted to return to their normal status-quo, but asking John for tea, as if he hadn't just been kissed, albeit chastely, by him, was a bit much.

"It tastes better when you do it." He said, sweeping through the living room.

John sighed, "That's because you don't steep; you stew."

He quickly resigned to Sherlock's request, and filled the kettle, and rinsed out the nearly clean mugs left in the sink from the morning. John was aware of Sherlock hovering in the background as John milled about the kitchen, busying himself with the other dishes.

"What would you do?" Sherlock asked, his voice carrying from the other side of the dining table.

"What?"

"What is it that you're afraid you would do?"

John dropped a tea bag in both of the clean mugs; decaf constant comment- his favourite brew before bed.

"I don't know, Sherlock." He said, quietly, looking down into the mugs, before he mustered the courage to turn around.

Sherlock was unexpectedly right in front of him once he did.

"Would you kiss me again? Sherlock asked, far too low and sultry for anyone's good.

John found that he couldn't form any words in answer, and instead, just nodded. Sherlock smiled, and settled closer, one sock covered foot slotting itself between John's. He was so close to that John could smell everything Sherlock ate for dinner on his breath, including the three glasses of dry red wine and the plate of tiramisu that they shared.

"Sherlock..." John was trying to find something to say, to protest maybe; he wasn't sure, but it didn't much matter, because Sherlock was kissing him, and John was kissing back.

It was a bit hesitant art first, but then Sherlock found his confidence, and brought a hand up to the back of John's neck, bruising their already hard pressed lips together even harder. It was an instinct, or maybe it was just overwhelming, hidden desire, but John's fingers went for the smooth buttons of Sherlock's shirt, and he pushed them through the fine stitched button holes, exposing more and milkier flesh as he went.

Their lips never parted, but as John finished with the last button, and slid the shirt off from Sherlock's shoulders, he ran the whole of his palms across the other man's chest, feeling his planes and angles; the way his rib cage expanded with each sharp intake of breath, and pressed against the wall of his chest as he leaned into John's touch.

Sherlock's hands were still firm against John's neck, as if he were to let go, John would put a stop to whatever it was that Sherlock had started, but the more of Sherlock's body he felt, the more John was starting to think that he wouldn't be able to stop even if the kitchen was burning down around them.

It wasn't a fire, however, that did stop but them, but rather the roaring whistle of the kettle, and the furious churn of the boiling water inside of it.

They stood, their lips and bodies now unlocked, and looked passed each other, neither of them having a clue as to what to say to one another. John reached for the kettle, and poured the hot water over the tea bags, and slid Sherlock's mug across the counter toward him. Sherlock looked at it, picked his shirt up from the floor, and wordlessly disappeared from the kitchen with a click of his bedroom door.

John let out a sigh. He didn't know how he didn't know that that was something he wanted. How could he have not known that he wanted to feel Sherlock; to taste him? He wanted to be devoured, and inside him; not just sexually, but spiritually; John wanted to be a part of Sherlock- one with his bones and his skin.

He couldn't sit still in his chair; kept tapping his toes against the rug, and starting to sip at his tea only to stop the moment the warm liquid hit his lips. He got up, walked to the back of the flat, and knocked once on Sherlock's bedroom door before opening it and standing fully present in the middle of the room.

Sherlock was on the edge of his bed, mug on his bedside table, changed into his pyjamas. He looked so much younger in his pyjamas; vulnerable, innocent almost. John had never noticed it until then.

"Can you explain to me what that was, Sherlock?" John asked.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock answered. His voice far too quiet and unsure of itself.

"Not an explanation."

"You were right; the night-the wine- was incredibly intoxicating; it clouded my mind."

"No it didn't. Nothing clouds your mind Sherlock, and you never do anything without wanting to do it. I'm not upset. I sure as he'll don't regret it; I just want to know, for my own piece of mind, what it was all about? Was it just a kiss; just an end to our night or was it something more than a kiss; the beginning of something different for us?"

"Would you want it to be; more?" Sherlock asked, quietly; not looking at John.

"I-I wouldn't be against seeing if it could be." John laughed, "But, you might just prefer me to stay your friend; I've been told, more than once, that I'm a terrible boyfriend."

Sherlock smiled, "so am I."

"Okay. We'll go slow, then. Keep it to ourselves for a bit, until we know it's real?"

"Yes."

"Good. Good. Now, will you come drink your tea with me, please?"

Sherlock slowly stood up from his bed, and walked over to where John was still standing. He enveloped John's face with his hands, and brought their lips together. It was a chaste meeting between two that lasted barely five seconds before John lowered himself flat on his feet. John had just a fleeting moment to realise and rationalise what was happening before there was a flurry of movement before him, and Sherlock's hands were on John's cheeks again, and his lips, hard against his own.

John hadn't been expecting that kiss, and it took his already foggy mind some time to catch up to the pushing of Sherlock's lips into his, to the velvety swipe of Sherlock's tongue against his, that seemed to be working on its own volition, and pressing back against the other man's dexterous pink muscle.

When John finally caught on to reality, he felt a tickle in the pit of his stomach that rose up into his chest, causing it to quiver as the feeling rose even higher into his throat where everything culminated in a noise that made his shoulders shake, and his mouth detach from Sherlock's.

"Are you laughing? You weren't laughing earlier" Sherlock asked, almost unbelieving.

"I'm sorry." John said, through the rise and fall of his uneven breath, "Earlier I wasn't thinking. Earlier we weren't..." John stopped a moment, brought the laughter under control as best he could, and thought about his next word, "a couple-" he tried, and Sherlock made a face, "dating; together?"

Sherlock made a sour face at each of John's suggestions.

"What would you call this then?" he asked.

Sherlock cast his eyes down, so that John could see them clearly, "earlier; we weren't us." He said, and kissed at John's lips again, but Sherlock's lips were barely able to touch John's before John started laughing again.

"Honestly..." Sherlock said, sounding irritated.

"I'm sorry, it's nerves."

"Do you want to just go and drink your tea until you calm down?"

"God, no. I want to kiss you; right now. I'm fine. I'm fine."

John cleared his throat, and rocked his head back and forth to crack his neck the same way he did before a game of rugby, and pressed up on his toes to meet Sherlock's height the best that he could. Sherlock was slow, waiting to see if John was going to crack up again, but he stayed strong, and so they both gave into the kiss. It quickly turned heated; Sherlock's tongue running along the wet heat of John's mouth- teasing it; tasting it. John returned the sentiment of exploration; chasing Sherlock's tongue in his own mouth to tangle them together.

Once again, working from instinct, John's hands reached out to touch the man in front of him. He slid a hand up underneath Sherlock's shirt, splayed his palm over the expanse of Sherlock's chest, and felt the absolute dichotomy of the planes of Sherlock's body. His bones stuck out at awkward angles; were easily felt underneath the skin, but as John's hand smoothed up Sherlock's body, he could feel the defined, yet lean, muscle of his pectorals, and followed it underneath the sleeve onto the bicep of a man who could play a violin like a lover for hours.

John broke their kiss, and stood back to admire the swell on Sherlock's lips, the flush on his cheeks, and the dazed expression that danced over his blue-gold eyes. He was finding it unbelievable, and just a little but wonderful, that he was the one to cause such a look of sheer debauchery and ecstasy on Sherlock, who, for his part, was just standing there, watching as John watched him; waiting to see if John would strike again.

"I thought we were intending to take this slow, John."

There was a primal need rising inside of John, to take more of him; to see just how much he could give the mad musician before it was too much.

"I do intend to take this slow, Sherlock." John dipped down, and laved his tongue against the thin skin over Sherlock's ever increasing pulse point. "Very, very slow." He punctuated with each swipe.

He felt Sherlock shudder underneath him, and heard the slightest whisper of a broken moan ghost into his ear.

John lifted his head to look back at him, and smiled; dark and predatory, and Sherlock matched it with the same across his own face. He made quick work of the buttons of his shirt; pausing for just a moment to silently ask Sherlock if he wanted to do it for him, but Sherlock only let his tongue dart from between his lips, and nod for John to continue on his own.

John was aware that his body was not what it used to be. Yes, there was still the taut muscle he had formed from his years at Uni playing rugby, and squash, but it was covered a bit more by squishy pockets of fat than they once were. And despite his regime of jogging and crunches, his middle and his waist had gone a bit soft. He didn't mind, however; John always had been, and assumed he always would be comfortable with his body, he was just suddenly very aware of it underneath the scrutiny of Sherlock's gaze, but when John changed a glance upwards from his own body, he saw nothing but reverence and hunger in Sherlock's eyes.

John let his shirt pool at his feet and he reached out to Sherlock, grasping for the other man's fingers to pull their bodies together; chest crashing against chest, and as they flattened even more against one another, their clothed erections brushed together as well. It lit John up, like he was a match and Sherlock was the rough strip of paper inside the book. Their mouths collided; a hard gnashing of teeth, tongue and lips. Hands ran erratically across exposed back, each feeling for spine and scapula before roaming back to the front, and undoing the other's respective pair of trousers.

Before John knew it, they were naked, and Sherlock had laid himself on top of the duvet covering his bed; his cock; long and lean like the rest of the man, teasing against his belly; waiting. John took in a deep breath, suddenly feeling very dizzy at the prospect of being able to take Sherlock as his own.

John kept to the promise he had kissed into Sherlock's pulse earlier, and slowly made his way over his lover's body.

Lover?

Yes, Sherlock was his lover; and he, Sherlock's. They were no longer flatmates or friends- they could never be either of those things again; not now, not after this. They would forever be entwined as _us_, whether together or apart.

Sherlock snaked an arm out from where it rested on his side, and cupped the nape of John's head. He gently pulled him down until he could lick at the seam of John's nearly parted lips. Sherlock lapped, not asking for entrance; perfectly content to trace the pattern and shape of John's lips, and John was perfectly content to let him, until effortlessly Sherlock's tongue did push into John's moth and tangle with his. They stayed kissing, slowly, lazily; as if they had the entirety of their lives laid out on front of them.

John supposed that they did.

He wasn't sure who did it first, but there was suddenly a pressure against his groin that quickly gave way to an absolute pleasure that continued to build as both men rolled and rocked their hips together, sliding their cocks against one another's; between their two bodies. Their lips had long since parted to give way to the short, desperate pants for breath, and the whining cries to God.

John opened his eyes to find Sherlock's closed, his head arched against the pillow underneath him, mouth open, and the most delicate plea dancing on his tongue.

"_Please, John."_

This was not the man that everyone else knew, not the man that the world knew; he was barely even the man John that he knew. This man was wonderful, and free; resigning his control over to John; trusting him to take him where he wanted to go.

And damn if it wasn't the sexist things John had ever seen.

John ground into Sherlock, decidedly hard, and Sherlock yelled out, arched ever higher off the bed, doubling down the pleasure by pushing back against John.

"Oh God... Can't- John...I can't."

"Shh." John soothed, and bent to kiss at the beads of sweat on Sherlock's forehead. "Let go, Sherlock. Come. Fuck, I want to see you come."

Sherlock keened while John rolled against him, and bit at his bottom lip until John saw a bright red blossom burst from the thin skin. He pressed his lips against Sherlock's, effectively swallowing the shout emanating from Sherlock's throat on the trail of the blood he was also sucking into his mouth. He felt Sherlock spill, hot, against him, and John couldn't hold on anymore himself.

He came, his lips falling from Sherlock's, but still searching for skin to touch and taste, as he called his lovers name quietly into the stillness of the bedroom.


	8. Chapter 8

Molly was cuddled down against the soft fabric of the sofa, an old Afghan covering her knees and her head resting against the canvas feel of a pair of khaki trousers. It had been almost two weeks since she had the chance to see Jim, and she was reveling in their quiet moment together on his sofa as they watched a marathon of a cooking show.

As she lay there, Jim idly stroked his fingers through her hair, and hummed a quiet tune that she didn't recognize.

"Is there anything else you'd like to do today?" Jim asked his brogue cutting through the air.

Molly shifted her head against his thigh, and closed her eyes for a moment; content. "No. This is just fine for me."

"Are you sure? We could still catch a film or get some fish and chips..."

"No really, I'm fine right here." She smiled, and rolled over onto her back, so that she was looking up at him. He smiled wide; flashing his teeth at her, and looked down so that their eyes met.

"I'm fine right here too." He said.

Molly reached for his hand that had fallen from her hair to her side, and slipped their fingers together. She couldn't remember the last time that she had felt so good in a relationship. Not that Jim was perfect; he had a temper, and she didn't get to see him nearly as often as she would have liked, and sometimes, in the bedroom, he requested strange things of her- not strange, she had justified, but not things she had ever done before, nor imagined herself doing. But, she found telling Jim Brook no was a bit difficult.

She sighed, and pressed a gentle kiss to the side of his index finger before sitting up and looking out the wall of windows behind them out at London.

"Although," she started, "If you wanted to get some take-away, I wouldn't object."

"That's a lovely idea. I'll get the menus."

Jim slid himself from the sofa, leaving Molly alone in the expanse of his living room. She often wondered if she could see herself there, in what she could only describe as a museum with all of the art that hung from the walls and set on the tables. It was a stark contrast to the man she had been dating for the last three month. He liked to slip into old worn out denim, and white t-shirts after being stifled up in a suit all day at the bank, making trades across the ocean. He liked to eat take- away straight from the containers, and drink wine from a plastic cup. Molly supposed, it was just another facet of his personality; one she would come to learn in time, and one she was content to learn about in time.

When Jim came back from the kitchen with a stack of paper menus, Molly had pulled her hair into a ponytail, and was sitting with her legs tucked underneath her like a little girl, which most people took to assumption that she was, despite the fact that she was thirty years old. She was sometimes disappointed that they lived in the kind of world where innocence and wonderment wasn't mean for anyone over the age of twelve anymore.

Jim seemed to appreciate it though; always smiling whenever she did, as though he couldn't stop himself even if he wanted to, which Molly suspected that he didn't.

"I'm in the mood for Thai." He said, handing her the menus, "But I'll eat whatever."

"No, Thai sounds good." She opened the menu he had set on the top, and searched for something that sounded good. When she had found it, Jim pulled out his mobile and called in their order.

As they waited, they cuddled down into the couch again, watching the same program on the telly, his fingers immediately finding purchase in her hair once again.

"Is this what you do when I'm out of the flat?" Sherlock asked. He was leaning against the frame between the kitchen and the living room, an amused smile playing over his entire face as he watched John, in only his pyjama bottoms, tap his hips and his feet along with the music nearly blaring over their old stereo system.

John turned a wooden spoon in his hand, and a smile of his own along his lips. "Everytime." He said.

Sherlock gracefully pushed himself away from the wall, and crossed the kitchen until he was standing in front of John

"Mmm" he rumbled against John, snaking his arms arguing his waist, and pressing his nose into his neck, "remind me to ask my brother for his CCV tapes then."

"Your brother has cameras in our flat?!"

"Yes."

"So he's-"

Sherlock smirked, "seen you bent over your chair with my cock in your arse? Yes."

"Oh God."

"He's seen you say that too."

"Sherlock!" John pushed him away.

"It's no big deal, John; not like he watches it."

"Either you get him to take them out, or no more sex."

"At all?" Sherlock asked, near desperation in his voice.

"God no, just not in the living room."

"Or the kitchen, then."

"Fuck, the kitchen too?" John laughed. He couldn't do anything other than. "Your brother is a sick bastard."

"Unnecessarily over protective." Sherlock said, waving his hand dismissively in the air.

"Let's give him .something special to watch, yea?"

John asked quirking up an eyebrow. He reached out for Sherlock's hands and tugged him into his body, crashing their chests together. John set the rhythm to the changing song, their hips close, their arms tight around each other. Sherlock rolled his eyes, as if dancing with John was beneath him, but he smiled none the less, and he didn't let go, but rather indulged him as John pressed his lips against the skin underneath Sherlock's ear, and sang the lyrics, almost absent mindedly.

_I'm so caught up in you_

_You're the one that's got me down on my knees_

_So caught up in you_

_That I never wanna set myself free_

It was beyond true. In a matter of weeks, Sherlock had become nothing short of John's reason to breathe. He was still in awe as to how he never knew that he wanted him; wanted that had been creating so badly. Now that he had it, it seemed impossible to let go.

John swept his lips across the skin of Sherlock's face until he found his lips, and lazily kissed him, as the music changed once again around them. John was more than conent to stay just as they were for the remainder of the day, for the remainder of their lives. If he could survive solely on Sherlock's kisses, then he would.

"You're ridiculous." Sherlock said, breaking their lips apart.

"You love me just the same."

Sherlock laughed, "Maybe so."

It was John who heard the door first, the awful creak broke through Sherlock's rare and beautiful laugh, and John pushed him away. The sudden loss of contact left John feeling cold, and almost empty without Sherlock in his arms, without his breath hot against the skin of his neck. John tried his best to smile an apology to Sherlock, who was in the process of setting his face back from that of rejection. It was only there for a fleeting moment, but John caught it, and it broke his heart just a little.

"John, are you home?" Mary's voice came through the flat, shouting to be heard.

"Yea-yea, in the kitchen." He answered, still looking at Sherlock, whose face was impossible to read, but was looking right back at John, his bright eyes searching.

It wasn't that John was ashamed to be with Sherlock. It was just the opposite, in fact. He was proud of Sherlock; always had been, and he was amazed that such a beautiful and intricate man wanted to be with him. But, how could he tall his friends; his family?

How could tell the people he had so easily let assume he was straight for his entire life, that that wasn't entirely true? And how could he tell them, that of all the men he could have a relationship with, he chose Sherlock Holmes?

It wasn't just the fear of being who he really was holding him back, however. It was also the thrill of secrecy. John enjoyed the tingle of risk that flitted through his body every time they dare kiss in the foyer, coming home; every time they cuddled on the couch and left the door unlocked; every time one screamed the others name when they were fucking. It was addicting keeping Sherlock his secret, and he didn't want to give that up yet; didn't want to face reality.

Mary popped her head into the kitchen and smiled at them both, though mostly to John. Sherlock nodded his head in acknowledgement of her, and then coolly slipped passed her into the living room.

"In a mood again?" She asked John.

"He's just tired. Was up early running some errand."

"I see." John reached at the counter behind him and turned down the radio. He pulled out a chair at the kitchen table, covered in sheet music and whittled down pencils.

"What's up?" He asked Mary, as she sat down across from her.

The smile on her face was hesitant, and what than it normally was, and she cried her hands in front of her on the table. She wanted a favour.

"Natasha, the new technician, was looking at the pictures on my desk, and she thought you were really cute, and despite me warning her off, she brought forced me to set you two up."

"Mary-"

"I would have just said no and left it at that, but she really seems your type, honest, John."

"I can't." he said, quickly and smoothly.

"Can't? You mean you won't."

"Right. I won't. I'm sorry."

"Please. She's very cute and she isn't eighteen..."

"I don't dare eighteen year olds."

"She likes football, and knows all the national rugby players. She's never been married, doesn't smoke-has a yellow lab..."

"Why are you so keen on this?"

Mary reached a hand across the table and grabbed into John's, "because I hate seeing you alone I hate seeing you de-value yourself, and enter a relationship you know isn't going to work out. You're a great man John, and if you don't want to be with me anymore, you deserve to be with someone else-not alone."

John could have told her right then that he wasn't alone. That the man in the sitting room, idly plucking at his violin and pretending not to listen to her and Mary, the last man John had ever expected to care for anyone, let alone him, kept him very un-lonely.

But he wouldn't.

"It's a nice thought Mary, and she sounds lovely-"

"She is! John, honest."

"I'm not interested. In anyone right now. Taking a break."

Mary sighed, and pulled her hand away from his, "if you change your mind."

"I'll let you know."

"No date with Natasha?"

John carefully picked Sherlock's fingers away from their loose grip on his violin, and set it down on the desk behind them. He smiled, and climbed on top of Sherlock, so that his knees were bent and slotted in between Sherlock's thighs and the leather of the chair. He set his hands out to rest on Sherlock's pectoral muscles.

"She didn't sound my type." He said, his voice low and even.

"No?"

"No."

"Likely of Russian descent; blonde hair, green eyes. Perhaps she's tall and curvy."

"Perhaps she is." John started absently skimming a thumb against the fabric of Sherlock's shirt, "but I've recently discovered that I go in for something different these days, like; dark hair, and blue eyes. And while I do still appreciate height, I'd rather have flat planes and sharp angles than soft curves."

"Oh really?"

Sherlock shifted in the chair so that his hips lifted just slightly off, and pressed his groin into John's. John's lips parted at the sweet surprise of contact, and he sucked in a sharp breath, automatically rocking back against Sherlock.

"Come to the bedroom with me." John whispered, sliding a hand up Sherlock, over his shoulder. He tickled his fingers against his neck, and traced them over his lips.

"I can't." Sherlock answered.

"Another mystery errand?"

"It was hardly a mystery. I was having coffee with Mycroft and the committee members for the benefit."

"Oh."

"It was tedious."

John laughed. He could imagine Sherlock quietly seething as a bunch of well to do art patrons still living off their trust fund laid out a list of pieces they wanted Sherlock to play, mostly pieces that he would never even think about touching. But he did anyway, every year, for just one night, because they let him send half the proceeds to the charity of his choice; The Homeless Network, and for as cold as Sherlock often came off, he did have a heart, and he did care about the world beyond the walls of Baker Street.

"So, I take it you'll be practising these next few days, and I'll be dutifully ignored?"

"I'm afraid so."

John sighed, "the price I pay for sleeping with a musical genius I suppose." He leaned down and pressed his lips into Sherlock's.

He meant for it to be quick, just a chaste peck, and then he would get up and leave Sherlock to his vices for the rest of the day, but he felt Sherlock's hands snake around him and cover his bare back. His warm fingers against his cool skin, made John shiver. Sherlock deepened their kiss, plunging his tongue, rather erratically, into John's mouth, and digging the tips of his fingers into John. John ran his own fingers through Sherlock's curls, tugging a little as he let Sherlock fuck his mouth with his tongue. No one had ever kissed John the way that Sherlock did, and he was certain no one ever would again.

Sherlock straightened in the chair, pulled John's chest against his, and while still trying to keep their lips together, slid his hands underneath John's arse and scooted him as close as he could get to his body. John cursed as his erection met with Sherlock's.

"I thought you didn't have any time." John said, their mouths now sloppily sliding against one another.

"I may have a few minutes available."

John laughed, "you just can't get enough of me, can you?"

Sherlock suddenly pulled their lips apart. He regarded John seriously for a moment. He brought one hand up to his cheek, cupped it gently, and ran his thumb along John's jaw line. "No, it seems that I can't." He said, and brought John's mouth onto his once again.


End file.
